The Baja Fluffitado 1500

or

The First and Last (?) Race of bc and Mudge

Part I: Eat My Dust, Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, Here Comes the Achenblog Beano Thelma-Louise and Hortense Stostakiewzchewski Flyer

By bc and Curmudgeon

Several weeks ago bc happened to mention he might have a chance to participate in a major long-distance off-road race, the Baja Fluffitado 1500. 

From the Official Baja Fluffitado Race Committee:

“The Baja Fluffitado 1500 is one of international racing’s most grueling off-road rally-type races. Beginning in Tijuana, Mexico, race cars depart at 10-minute intervals, and must race 750 miles down the rugged, heat-blistering terrain of Baja California, to the southernmost tip near Cabo San Lucas, and then 750 miles back to Tijuana. Along the way, a marked route will cross burning deserts, arid mountains, and cactus-strewn foothills. The route will be mostly off-road or use minor roads, paths and trails over the countryside, occasionally wending through small villages. Along the route there will be 10 checkpoints, similar to pit stops, where driver and navigator may stop for bathroom breaks, re-fuel their race cars and make any necessary repairs or adjustments. These pit stops are not timed, per se, but may not exceed 30 minutes; the time spent in the pit stop does not count toward the racers’ time. However, clocking in and clocking out of Time Control is obviously critical….”

“Vehicles must be a basic stock automobile manufactured in any country before 1960, and may be modified within limitations to adapt to race conditions (see Appendix A). Race teams are comprised of a driver and a navigator, who may not exchange positions during the race. Race teams may acquire sponsors, and may decorate their vehicles with sponsor decals and markings in any way they wish….”

bc said that he had been scouring local junkyards for a car to adapt to race-worthy condition, but was having no luck. Curmudgeon replied that he’d offer up his beloved old MG if he could come along as the race navigator. What follows is a four-part report on What Happened Next, as told from excerpts from official race documents, bc’s diary, police reports and from the logbook kept by Curmudgeon during the race.

from bc’s diary:

“I gave in to Mudge’s predilection for open-top Brit sports cars, settling for his 1952 MG TD. But being an incorrigible tinkerer, I couldn’t leave the MG and its wheezy 1250 cc, 4-cylinder 57-hp engine alone. Relying on my skills of international horse-trading, I acquired a supercharged 5.66-liter straight-8 engine as used in the 1937 Mercedes M125 Grand Prix racing cars, rated at 645-hp at 5,800 RPM on full boost, in exchange for a pristine Rambler American dashboard.

The original plan to swap the engine over a weekend, test, de-bug and paint the car turned into a three-month thrash, six hours a night after our day jobs, and 12 hours a day on weekends. Swapping our vintage Teutonic tower of power into an MG chassis with the structural rigidity of al dente ziti caused us to consider the effects on the rest of the car. So, in a mere 665.5 hours we replaced everything that we didn’t think would hold up. Which was everything.

What we ended up with was a car that looked like a veddy fussy MG-TD with an elongated snout (painted the traditional American racing colors of white with blue trim), had a stout German metal heart, the chassis of a Midwestern short-track sprint car (after all, we were going to be on dirt as much as macadam), the soul of a California T-bucket hot rod, and sounded like a flatulent blender set on ‘frappe.’ At 100 decibels.

Curmudgeon’s intermittent spells of weeping every time he looked at his beloved MG were heart-rending, if not a bit pathetic.”

from Mudge’s Logbook:

“Race Day minus 3: Search for sponsors hasn’t gone as well as I’d hoped. Unable to attract major national/international sponsors. As matter of principle, we agree NOT to accept sponsorship from any tobacco companies. Refused $25,000 sponsorship from AnnCoulter.com, which would have required putting life-size decal of her face on car doors, and accepting ‘1692′ as official race car number. After all, must retain one’s ethics and morals. Accepted smaller sponsorships from adult Web site ‘Big ——-,’ and from pharmaceutical company that makes ‘Beano.’ bc has local friend who agrees to be our major sponsor:  Stostakiewzchewski’s Funeral Home and Peach Orchard, motto: “Where Death and Fine Fruit Are the Pits.” Old Man Stostakiewzchewski had one other condition: must name car after his two daughters, Thelma-Louise Stostakiewzchewski and Hortense Stostakiewzchewski. After much weeping, bc convinced me to agree to conditions. My beloved MG will henceforth be known as the Achenblog Beano Thelma-Louise and Hortense Stostakiewzchewski Flyer.

Memo to self: Bring lots of Kleenex, Chapstick for cheeks (both sets – it’s going to be a long ride).”

from bc’s diary:

“Race Day minus 1: I am an idiot. Mudge and I bring the small-but-mighty Flyer down to Mexico on the back of a borrowed flatbed truck normally used to haul chickens, and arrive at the Tijuana border crossing only to realize that I inadvertently mailed our passports to the Fluffitado organizers with our entry forms and fees. The Mexican border police ask to see our paperwork, and after much thrashing, swearing, and sweating, I manage to convey the idea that I had nada. Mudge is rightfully furious with me, and keeps hitting me with his hat (he’s the Skipper, after all). The Mexican border police are having none of it and send us on our way, so we head back towards San Diego to think. We pull into a gas station, and in the men’s room we bump into a nice chap with a passport who is willing to drive the truck and the Flyer into TJ for a Benjamin, which I agree to pay out of my Gift Shop trip budget. Mudge and I rearrange the flatbed so we can strap ourselves under it with duct tape and spool of rusty chicken wire we find in the bed of the truck. We go across the border that way. It’s dark, hot as hell and burning chicken guano vapors sear our eyes, noses, and throats. I burn my shoulder on the truck’s exhaust system and Mudge takes a speed-bag beating from the truck’s driveshaft u-joints – whap-whap-whap-whap. The bumpy ride seems to take forever. I don’t know what our driver says at the crossing, but there is much laughing and the guards don’t look under the truck. When our friend stops in an alley to let us out and collect his pay, he starts laughing while holding his nose with one hand, reaching out for his cash with the other. When I look at Mudge through my burning, teary eyes, I realize we’re covered with warm pasty chicken crap and feathers from the bottom of the truck. Fowl-smelling ambulatory chicken s^!t featherduster nightmares is what we are. I hand the driver his money and he walks away laughing and shaking his head. Mudge hits me with his hat again, making a brief snowstorm of feathers. We hustle through town to make the traditional night-before-race banquet and parade through streets of Tijuana. Race crews and cars parade through town, throwing strings of beads to local senoritas, hoping to get Mardi Gras-like responses from them. Alas, senoritas do not seem to be in Mardi-Gras-like mood where we were concerned. I guess a shower might have helped.”

But we’ve finally made it into Mexico. If we work hard and have some luck, all of our dreams will come true. That’s the American Dream, isn’t it?”

At Pre-Race banquet, starting positions are drawn randomly from big drum. We draw fourth starting position, at 7:40 a.m. That means three cars in front of us, 86 cars behind us. We have made all possible preparations: Canteens and jugs of drinking water, major supply of Slim-Jims for snacks, tools, extra rolls of duct tape, J-B Weld, etc. We also borrowed ScienceTim’s fishing vest, thinking that whatever we didn’t remember to bring would probably be in one of his pockets. Mudge seems to have his weeping under control, as long as he doesn’t have to look at his car or breathe near me. Bleeding from cut on his forehead where a senorita threw a beaded necklace back at him has stopped after some quick repair work (she had a wicked sidearm motion!). It’s a good thing I had that safety wire and some plyers — he can take out my spiffy stainless steel stitches after the race. We’ve gone over the Achenblog Beano Thelma-Louise and Hortense Stostakiewzchewski Flyer one last time. We really think we’re ready.”

Coming in  Part II: 40 Miles of Bad Road. And Another 40. And Another 40…

or

More Than One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest

© Copyright by the authors 2008, all rights reserved.

P.S. If you enjoyed this, please come back soon for Parts II, III, and IV, and don’t forget to stop by Joel Achenbach’s Achenblog and say something nice about him in the Comments section (aka the Kaboodle). He has a new boss at the Washington Post, and it wouldn’t hurt for someone to say something positive about him in public. It’d be a nice change, too.

bc